


Promise me

by ellenoruschka



Series: Heal me (Roméo et Juliette - Modern AU) [1]
Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo e Giulietta - Ama e Cambia il Mondo, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assassination Attempt(s), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Paris is mentioned and makes a cameo appearance, Prompt Fill, Stab Wound, Stabbing, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tumblr Prompt, Valentine and Tybalt are mentioned but do not make an appearance, ambulance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 08:51:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14421834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellenoruschka/pseuds/ellenoruschka
Summary: “It’s not… that bad,” whom was he trying to fool? “But a… an ambulance is a… good… idea,” he tasted blood on his tongue again and instantly knew he was not getting out of this one.





	Promise me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [demigod756](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=demigod756).



> Note 1. Requested by demigod756 (https://demigod756.tumblr.com) - "Mercutio and Escalus with some kind of hurt/comfort and angst".
> 
> Note 2. Mercutio is from the French 2010 version. Escalus has no strict faceclaim, but I usually imagine him as Boris Pfeifer from the Austrian version, Frederic Charter from the French original cast (2001), or the combo of the two. Anyway, just let your imagination flow.
> 
> Note 3. This drabble can be read as the backstory to my other prompt fill "Shelter" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/13871157).
> 
> Note 4. In my fanfiction, the Prince's first name is Bartolomeo, because history says so; but I also call him Escalus, because Shakespeare says so. I use 'Scaliger' and 'della Scala' interchangeably as equivalents of his last name.

Swearing through gritted teeth and pressing his hand to the wound — not that it was helping any, since it was deep and the bleeding was obviously internal — Bartolomeo couldn't help but feel glad that Valentine had been too busy with his studies to make it to the restaurant for a “Scaligathering”, as Mercutio had dubbed their small family outing. 

At least the youngest of his boys was safe and away from trouble. 

The eldest, however, was at his side, all huge eyes and shaking hands, staring down at him in fear. The youth had dashed to his help as soon as he saw trouble — but the attacker was faster. One moment, uncle and nephew were walking along the well-lit street, engrossed in conversation – now that Mercutio had moved out, they had much to discuss each time they met – and the next moment, Escalus was sprawled on the wet pavement, clutching at his side where an angry, agonizing pain was pooling like melted iron. The assailant had instantly fled into the maze of narrow alleys, mercifully having caused no harm to Mercutio – apparently, Escalus had been his only target. 

"I would think... my position as judge... called for hiring a sniper, not a brute with a shank," Bartolomeo tried to smile at the panicked boy who was kneeling beside him, but gave up the attempt as soon as he felt a coppery, metallic tang in his mouth. 

The situation was not looking good at all.

But if there was one thing Escalus was not planning to do… then it was dying and leaving his nephew alone, shocked and frightened. He owed it to his sister, if not to the boy himself. If he had to die, if that wound was going to be the cause of his death — so be it, but the least he could — and had to — do was stay alive and conscious until they got to the hospital and make sure Mercutio was alright. He knew his nephew better than anyone else did, Valentine and Tybalt, Mercutio’s partner, left aside; and was well aware that behind his brave and bright trickster façade, the boy was vulnerable – much like himself. Very few things could strip off the protective layers and strike home… but watching someone close to you unexpectedly die in the street was definitely part of the list. And Escalus did not want to think what it would do to his nephew. 

Blacking out right there in the empty street was not an option. 

“M-maybe they can’t afford a sniper,” Mercutio chuckled nervously, pulling his uncle’s hand away from his side and rucking up his shirt to take a look. The wound looked deceptively small and innocuous, but neither the uncle nor the nephew were misled by its seeming harmlessness and the lack of visible bleeding.  


Escalus tried to pull himself up, but the movement caused the sharp pain in his side to flare up with renewed force, and Bartolomeo fell back down, biting on his lip to stifle his groan as best as he could to avoid frightening the youth even further. 

The burning sensation of red-hot iron in his stomach was all-consuming, and the blood loss left him dizzy and disoriented; but Escalus pushed through the haze that was threatening to swallow him and focused on his nephew’s pale, worried face above him. 

“Hey, you’re going to be okay, do you hear me? I’ve got you, just let me call the ambulance,” Mercutio’s lips quivered as he spoke, but he was otherwise keeping his panic in check. Desperately trying to smile, he dug out his mobile from the pocket of his jeans and hurriedly dialed the emergency number. Bartolomeo nodded.

“It’s not… that bad,” whom was he trying to fool? “But a… an ambulance is a… good… idea,” he tasted blood on his tongue again and instantly knew he was not getting out of this one – at least not easily. But certainly he could endure until the hospital, could he not?.. Keep it together, Escalus, damn you!.. 

A wave of nausea hit him, and the coppery tang in his mouth mixed with sour bitterness. His eyes teared up, his throat was burning; violent coughs wracked his entire body, jostling the wound and magnifying the pain until it became almost unbearable. Bartolomeo tried to inhale but failed, choking on blood and bile, there was not enough air, he was going to suffocate…

…but then there were firm hands on his shoulders, and he was being pulled up and pressed against something warm and solid, and the rhythmical sound of a familiar voice was guiding him to calm down and breathe in – breathe out – breathe in – breathe out… 

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, just relax and breathe, breathe now, here we go, here we go...” chanted Mercutio, and though it was evident from the strain in his voice that the boy was scared, he still was holding up well. His words were helping, too; soon enough Bartolomeo’s lungs and throat began to obey him once more, bringing back the much-needed control over his injured body. He kept breathing steadily, slowly, following the monotonous rhythm of Mercutio’s voice. 

The youth kept speaking – partly because of the calming effect it seemed to have on the wounded man, partly because he had to keep his own growing panic at bay. Incessant talking and chattering was what Mercutio had always been good it, so he clung to it as his best chance to keep his composure. “The ambulance is on the way, and I called Paris, too, thought he should know, he says he will come directly, I only hope he won’t tell Val anything, but well, Paris is not stupid, he won’t… Hey, you with me?” he unconsciously grabbed Bartolomeo’s hand, squeezing it, shaking it slightly. “Uncle! Hey! Don’t you dare faint on me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” groaned the elder Scaliger, pretending to be disgruntled but squeezing back. “You and Valentine never let me rest quietly even in my own home, what chances do I have here in the street? Besides…” his speech was slurred, and his skin felt cold and clammy – a bad sign – but he stubbornly continued, “besides, this doesn’t really look… like my favourite couch, right?”

Mercutio chuckled gratefully at his feeble attempt at humour, and Bartolomeo felt him shift. His own body was sore, the pain still coiled in his side, deep and dangerous, hot and heavy but slowly morphing into a numbing weariness… he blinked, and his nephew’s face swam into his field of vision, blocking the bright street lamp, unruly curls falling forward and almost brushing against Bartolomeo’s own forehead. It was getting dark, and the light of the street lamp above them was creating a bright halo around the youth’s head. Bartolomeo smiled at his own sentimental thought – angelic attributes definitely were at odds with Mercutio’s trickster image, yet at that moment the halo seemed somehow… fitting.

“Stay with me,” whispered Mercutio, starting at him intently. “You hear me?” 

The siren of the ambulance howled faintly in the distance. 

“Stay with me.”

Mercutio’s eyes, shaded by his long hair, were dark and bright at the same time. Was the boy crying?.. Escalus smiled again and reached up to clasp his nephew’s shoulder reassuringly. 

“I am not going anywhere. Hey…” the siren was growing louder, closer. “No need to worry Valentine for now. You will…”

“I will inform Val myself later, don’t worry,” Mercutio nodded, smiling through tears. “Paris is about as gentle as a brick to the teeth, I know, with that eternal formality of his.” 

“He’s my employee; of course he is formal with you. Besides, haven’t you yourself just used ‘inform’ instead of ‘tell’ not a moment ago?” teased Bartolomeo, pushing through the grey haze of nothingness once more. “Pot and kettle…”

“Uncle! Are you saying I sound like an office rat?” Mercutio’s indignation would have sounded almost convincing if not for the tears in his voice. “I’ll have you know that I am nothing of the kind!”

Escalus chuckled, genuinely amused.

“Now you sound bookish, nephew mine. I…” 

But he did not get to finish the thought, because the pain came back all of a sudden, and then he was coughing violently again, his whole body convulsing, and then there was a siren, and another siren, and people, and many voices, and one of them seemed familiar – was that Paris? Good, he would take care of everything – and about the boys, too – and then the coughing finally subsided, and he was being picked up and placed on the stretcher and carried somewhere – to the ambulance, you old fool, where else? – and Mercutio was at his side again, huge dark eyes full of tears, and Paris was next to him, as stern and thin-lipped as ever, and he was pulling Mercutio away, saying something insistently – but Mercutio wasn’t having it.

“Promise me you’ll be okay!” and Bartolomeo felt nephew’s cold fingers grasp his hand, the panic in his voice now painfully obvious. “Promise me! You’ve got to be okay! Uncle, please, you must promise!..”

Forcing his eyes open – when had he closed them? – Escalus looked into his nephew’s fear-stricken face and smiled. 

He couldn’t make such a promise, because there was a strong possibility it would end up broken; for all he knew, his wound could turn out to be pretty much fatal. But his nephew was asking him to stay alive, his nephew needed him, needed his comfort and reassurance – and Escalus could not deny him that. 

“I promise.”

And as the doors of the ambulance slammed shut and the world around him began to descend into a whirlpool of pain and darkness, Bartolomeo della Scala closed his eyes with a peaceful sigh, secure in the knowledge that he would open them once again. 

He had a promise to keep, after all.


End file.
